When We Argued All Night

by Alice Mattison

  When We Argued All Night

  A Novel

  Alice Mattison

  Dedication

  In memory of Rose and Julius Eisenberg

  and for Nina, Henry, and Jesse

  Contents

  Dedication

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Part Two

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Acknowledgments

  P. S.: Insights, Interviews & More . . .

  About the author

  About the book

  Read on

  Also by Alice Mattison

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Part One

  What Does Anyone Accomplish?

  Chapter 1

  The Whistler

  1936

  I hate to see . . .

  No conceivable point taking off his shoes here, here being a splintering wooden step off a small slanted screened porch. Rocks and pebbles on the downward slope toward the lake, roots of trees.

  —I hate to see (Artie sang) that evening sun go down. He sat down and took off his shoes anyway, first one—experimentally, wiggling his toes—then the other. He left the shoes on the step.

  —I hate to see . . .

  His hot, itchy black socks. Stuffed them into his shoes. Stood up carefully. The rocks hurt Artie Saltzman’s feet, but the dirt and pine needles between his toes felt good. He breathed air that didn’t smell of city. Halfway to the lake—small, round, ringed by mountains—he stopped, undid his belt buckle, his pants (was he doing this?), then took off all his clothes, bending awkwardly to get his pants and his shorts past his feet. Artie took off his eyeglasses and rolled up his clothes around them, put a good-sized rock on the bundle. A shiver skidded down his back, his tush. Such a dope, he looked around, but nobody was there except Harold, way out in the lake. Who would be there?

  —We can get in a swim before it’s dark, Harold had said. Immediately naked, unexpectedly substantial, he was on his way into the lake before Artie had put down his suitcase and wiggled the cramp out of his fingers. Now Harold swam smoothly from right to left, twenty feet from shore. Though Artie could beat Harold easily at handball or punchball, and less easily at tennis, Artie could not swim.

  —I love to see. He sang again. Tree roots under his arches: pain mixed with pleasure. That morning sun come up! An old gray wooden boat was tied to the dock, making a rhythmic bump when the water shifted it. He made himself walk all the way into the lake, singing, trying and failing not to stiffen, wince, and hesitate. The water was cold.

  —St. Louie woman! This he shouted.

  Not that cold.

  —With your diamond rings! He splashed into the water. He was wet, naked and wet, Artie Saltzman in the Adirondack Mountains with his friend Harold Abramovitz—they’d met in third grade; they were twenty-six—in 1936, with no girls (no, the girl who came to mind simply didn’t count), no money, but a week off and a cabin in the woods that belonged to somebody whom Harold knew—how did he invariably get what he wanted?

  Artie’s daughter Brenda—born five years, more or less, after this splash—would notice that when her father sang I hate to see that evening sun go down, he followed it with a silence and then, St. Louie woman, with your diamond rings. Brenda couldn’t tell whether the lines belonged to one song (and what was in his mind between them if they did?) or two songs that he associated, nor whether the third line he sometimes sang, about the morning sun, was his own invention. She did not ask. Only in adulthood did she hear “The St. Louis Blues.”

  The lake was socked in with Christmas trees now blurred with dusk and Artie’s nearsightedness. No other houses that he could see. No beach, just a cleared space, a few tree stumps. Now that he was wet, he stood looking around, scooping water and tossing it at his shoulders, and the lake lapped his waist. Harold doubled back, swimming a different stroke, maybe a sidestroke, his face away from Artie, his thick yellow curls dark with water. All at once Artie was angry that he couldn’t swim. Maybe he could swim after all, maybe desire was enough. He thrust himself forward, whipping his head from one side to the other, his eyes squeezed shut, thrashing his arms and legs. Careful not to go too far but not careful enough. When he tired and stood, he gulped water, choked, scrambled toward shore. Harold had not seen.

  They’d taken a bus from the Port Authority, the very building where, on the tenth floor, Artie had clerked ineffectually for the WPA until June, when he’d been laid off. Shirkers and agitators will be dropped first, Ridder had said, announcing the plan to end ten thousand WPA jobs, so soon after the whole program—hiring people on home relief—got going. The administrator’s announcement, of course, led to picketing, seizure of the offices, police, all that fun. But though he was again unemployed, now Artie had time for a week in the mountains, and Harold, who still had a job, had finagled time.

  Harold had decreed they would buy groceries in Albany: beans and wieners, soup. Uneeda biscuits, Artie had added. They’d hitchhiked (long waits, short rides) the rest of the way, standing with their thumbs out, each with a valise and a grocery bag.

  Now it was starting to get dark, and insects kvetched and fussed. Something splashed, far out. Harold lumbered into the shallow water near Artie, his big thighs shoving water, his privates wrinkled with cold. Let’s piss in the lake, he said.

  As they faced the lake, elegantly pissing, side by side as in a rite that would ensure their safety and prosperity, the purity and health of the issue of their loins—and while Harold reached to shove Artie’s shoulder, saying, Son of a gun! to celebrate their achievement—came the tentative sound of a motor. The cabin was on a twisty driveway, and the sound was nearer than the road. It diminished, then grew stronger.

  —Jesus Christ almighty, said Artie the Jewish atheist, as they heard a car stop just beyond the cabin. He started picking his way toward his clothes, but Harold walked deeper into the lake, until the water was up to his chest, and stood with his arms stretched wide, casually scooping water, eyeing the cabin and the dirt driveway behind it, where a black Packard was just visible. The engine ceased and doors slammed. Voices. Two young women, one with an orange scarf around her head, appeared at the side of the cabin as Artie yanked at the roll of his clothes and first snatched his glasses out of trouble and onto his nose, then made a quick decision to skip his underwear and try to thrust his legs into his pants, something difficult to accomplish standing up and with wet legs. Brenda and her younger sister Carol would hear this story many times: So I’m thinking, who the hell are these dames? Did Harold set this up? And he’s out there bouncing up and down in the lake and smiling.

  —Hello? Then more loudly, Hello? The young woman who’d spoken, the one in the orange headdress, was amused, but also something else. Excuse me?

  Artie at last worked his second leg through his pants until his foot came out the other end. Buckling his belt, he set off toward the women bare-chested, determined to step forcefully but mincing over rocks and roots.

  —What are you boys doing here? said the woman as he approached. She had dark reddish hair under the scarf, which she snatched off, raking her hair straight back from her head with arched, strong fingers, lining it up against its will. She had not said, What are you doing here, Jew? but Artie flinched as if she had, as if she’d been close enough to see his circumcision.

  —What the hell are you talking about? Artie said. We have permission from the owner! We were invited! Still in the lake, Harold was now a dark lump, useless. Artie tried to remember the name he’d mentioned. Gus. He
said, Gus said we could definitely use the house.

  —Gus is my father, said the woman who’d turn out to be Myra, whom Artie would always feel he understood better than Harold did, because of the advantage of this conversation while the great Harold Abramovitz, reader of Hawthorne, Emerson, and Henry James, had stranded himself in the lake.

  Brenda and Carol would ask, each time, How did Harold get out of the water? But the point was that Artie had to solve the problem himself. It became clear, as he and the young woman yelled, that something about Gus embarrassed her, even if he was her father. Noticing discomfort, Artie kept arguing. Nobody in later years could remember more than one significant fact about the friend, Virginia, and they didn’t learn it until later. Artie and Myra eventually came to an agreement: after all, they were two men and two women, young, and among them they had, at least now, a house of sorts and a car. The girls (who even had money) drove off, saying they’d return with steaks and liquor. Artie had declared there was room for all in the cabin, an unlikely idea.

  When the car was gone, Harold limped shivering into the cabin and began scrambling in his suitcase for a towel.

  —What the hell did Gus tell you? Artie said.

  —He said use the cabin anytime. So I got him to draw a map. Harold rubbed his legs vigorously, then jerked the towel back and forth across his back.

  —You didn’t tell him we were coming this week?

  —I wasn’t sure at the time.

  —You never told him?

  Harold shrugged and dried his ears. He told me where the key was. What the hell difference does it make? He looked whiny and cold, his blue eyes bulging, his wet curls flat.

  Artie didn’t answer. Harold had found the key readily, in a crevice in the cabin’s stone foundation, inside a metal box that might have contained candies a long time ago.

  —I’m hungry. I don’t want to wait, Artie said.

  —Wait for what? Harold began getting dressed.

  —Those girls. They’re coming back with food.

  —Why would they do that? Harold got dressed just so, like a judge putting on his robes. Artie had somehow known this, maybe from gym in high school. Harold tucked his undershirt into his shorts, he straightened his shirt and smoothed it over his tuchas as he pulled his pants up. He rummaged in his valise for a heavy sweater. The bag mostly had books in it.

  —I told them they could stay here, Artie said, leaning in the doorway. Given a wall, Artie leaned.

  —You told them they could stay here? We don’t want them to stay here!

  —Why not? They’re pretty. Besides, they need a place to stay, and they thought they were staying here, Artie said.

  —They don’t want to stay here with us, Harold said.

  —What’s wrong with us? Artie didn’t trust Myra, exactly, but he liked her scrappiness, her shikse sense of superiority. Virginia was quiet and pretty, a blonde.

  —There’s no room, said Harold. They have money. They’ll go to a hotel.

  —There’s room! And why should they give up if it’s their place? The cabin had in it a fireplace, a woodstove, a table, a moldy couch, a sink. Pine walls and ceiling, four windows. Bunk beds in a tiny bedroom. A short distance away, an outhouse. We’re in the wilderness! Artie said. There’s no hotel!

  —Sure there is, Harold said. They won’t be back. Didn’t you say the name Gus before she did? She said Gus was her father after you said the owner was Gus.

  —How did she know Gus was old enough to be her father, in that case?

  —He isn’t.

  —And how did she know enough to ask us who we were? If she’s not Gus’s daughter, she knows Gus.

  But maybe Harold was right. The girl, Myra, could be anyone. She would not return. He was sorry. He was curious. They built a fire, cooked franks on sticks, and heated up beans. As they ate, Artie had an inspiration. He thought for a while, then spoke:

  There were two naked Jews in the mountains,

  Who decided to try out their fountains.

  They pissed in the lake,

  A colossal mistake—

  —Yes? Harold chewed, waiting. They sat on spindly red chairs at the little table against the window overlooking the lake, now invisible in the dark.

  —I thought a last line would come, but it didn’t. What rhymes with mountains?

  —Accountants.

  —Forget it.

  They piled the plates in a dishpan. There was a faucet with a strong rope of cold water, but no reason to clean up. I’m glad they didn’t come back, Harold said. I need to talk to you. He settled himself on the sofa.

  —About what? Artie was on his way to the bedroom. I want to unpack, he said. He wanted the bottom bunk, and if he didn’t move fast, Harold would end up with it.

  —No, sit down.

  Artie stood uncertainly, suitcase in hand, then set it down where he stood, pulled one of the wooden chairs closer, and sat down. Can’t it wait? We have a week, for God’s sake.

  —No, said Harold. Look, I want to tell you first. He stretched his feet out into the room, leaned back, arranged his hands behind his head. It’s—well, I guess it’s news. I joined the party.

  —Holy shit. When? The party? What the hell did you do that for? Artie stood, then turned his chair and straddled it, so its back was between him and Harold. He leaned forward on the chair back, familiar rage starting—maybe because Harold had done this without him, maybe because it was, as so often, bigger and braver and more interesting than anything he did. Maybe because it was stupid. He had been at Communist Party meetings, sure. They annoyed him. If you said something wrong, you had to pay a fine. How could Harold, of all people, stand that? Mr. Independence. How the hell could you join the party? Even here, even in the wilderness, did they have to talk about the state of the world?

  —It wasn’t a momentary decision, Harold said.

  —Momentary decision? When did you ever make a momentary decision? Artie made momentary decisions, Harold never. Just tell me this, he continued. Just for one second, tell me this. (His skin felt hot.) When was it proved that taking forever to make up your mind means you decide right?

  —Would you give me a chance? Harold said.

  —As if I didn’t know what you’re going to say! The working slobs, the suffering masses . . . Artie shifted his chair and sat on it the proper way, then shifted it again and sat astride.

  —And you don’t care about that? said Harold, still stretched on the sofa but now gesturing slowly with his hands, those insufferably calm, wide pink hands that, for all his life, Artie would picture when anyone said, about anything whatsoever, Just leave it in my hands.

  —What you don’t like about the party bothers me too, Harold said. They’re bossy.

  —Bossy! Bossy! Artie flung his arms out, reaching toward the walls. Those guys are totalitarian. They’re like Franco.

  —Well, I wouldn’t go that far! Harold said. The point is, time and again, time—he erected with his right hand a barrier between one time and another time—and again—he erected a second barrier—the C.P. has been the only organization to step in (Harold’s hand cut through his barrier) and speak up (the same hand came down on the other imaginary barrier, smashed it to bits). Nobody else has the guts, nobody else has the drive. Harold’s blue eyes bulged more than usual.

  —Maybe nobody else cares as much about being the center of attention.

  —The Scottsboro Boys. The strikes. The . . . I know, I admit, they’re not perfect, of course they want attention, they want members. But we have to choose. We have to make a choice, Artie.

  —Oh, don’t give me that.

  —I don’t think—Harold stood—that it’s truly principled to watch everything that happens and not take a position.

  Artie stood and picked up his suitcase again. You and your fancy principles! All my life I’ve been hearing about your principles! He turned his back. Then something occurred to him, and he couldn’t keep his mouth from smiling. Not just your goddamned principles!
Your goddamned assistant principles! I’m going to bed!

  —All right, all right, came Harold’s voice behind him. Harold’s suitcase was already open on the bottom bunk. Some of his clothes and books had been taken out. Son of a gun, said Artie. Son of a gun. Was he surprised? He was not surprised. He opened his suitcase on the floor in front of Harold’s bunk, took out his pajamas, and remembered the outhouse. Better to visit it in his clothes, and then figure out how to get into the top bunk. It might be necessary to step on the possessions of the guy in the bottom bunk. Too bad.

  —Do we have a searchlight? he called.

  —No.

  Harold Abramovitz’s father sewed linings into women’s jackets. On the streetcar or in the street he might point and whisper, asking Harold to notice the faulty construction of a woman’s coat, how the lining sagged.

  —Pop! Harold would say, For God’s sake!

  —You should know. Harold would turn his head, as reluctant to be seen staring at a woman as he was determined not to be instructed about the garment trades when he’d decided to become a philosopher.

  But even as he shrugged away his father’s hand on his shoulder (Look! The sleeve—bunched up, there at the shoulder. Never you should do like that! Rip it out!) Harold felt guilty, because the father’s life (how proud he had been when he was promoted to linings, how his eyes hurt at night) moved and troubled the son. His father, a stalwart union member, a socialist, was intelligent. Harold knew that if they hadn’t lived in New York—City College was free—he might end up sewing linings too—if he was good enough. He honored those who labored, whom he pictured with stubby bodies, round haircuts, and billowing pants, like Brueghel’s harvesters, and he tried to honor his parents, but he couldn’t seem to perceive his parents’ nobility as clearly as their foolishness and errors. He didn’t want to feel superior to people who worked with their hands, but he did feel superior. Nights, he enumerated in his mind his rude remarks and instances of disrespect, but the next day he was again rude and disrespectful.